Grandfather Who Eats Anything

Another Oklahoma Bigfoot Story

Grandfather Who Eats Anything

My great grandmother Woodall was a real Indian. Her maiden name had been Long Knife and she could speak both the Delaware and Cherokee languages, although would speak neither around any of her children. Wishing for them to take the white man's ways. Her husband, Bill Woodall, had been killed back in 1960 pulling out of the farm's driveway in his 1953 Plymouth. Hit by an oncoming pickup truck loaded with hay bails.

The farm was located in North Eastern Oklahoma, just South of Arkansas City and near the Chilocco Indian School. A wild place that had been closed off in the late 1800's as a place to teach agriculture to to Indian children. The land had never been completely developed and the creek bottoms remained as they had been since before the coming of the white man.

Each summer, prior to turning 12, I would spend a week with granny and Mr. Bunt. Granny was then 85 years old and she needed the frequently intoxicated Mr. Bunt to help care for the farm. He was some distant and obscure relative of ours and he was allowed to sleep in the barn. The lions share of his compensation for his meager help.

One day, at the age of nine, whilst walking to the fishing pond, and crossing through a stand of dark cottonwoods, I made the following observation to my great grandmother:

“There ain't no monkeys in Oklahoma, and that's too bad. I like them.”

“When did you ever see a monkey?” My granny asked.

“Last week. Guy down the street from us has one. A little one. Walks it around on a leash. Sometimes he lets it run around the back yard.”

“Where did he get a monkey?”

“I don't know”, I replied, “He has a pet crow too. Raised it from a chick. It runs out and pecks the little kids' feet if they walk barefoot. I guess he just likes animals. I do too.”

“Well then”, granny replied, “I guess I'll take you to see old Bill. He's sort of looks like a monkey. He's what the Indians called “Grandfather Who Eats Anything”.”

“Where's he live?”

“Don't know, he just comes when I go to that stump under the big weeping willow by the creek.”

“Why?”

“'Cause I bring him food.”

“Why?” I persisted.

“'Cause I think he's too old and crippled up to feed himself no more.”

“Can he climb trees?”

“Don't think so.”

“Then he ain't much of a monkey.” I observed.

“Well baboons can't climb trees neither. And they're monkeys.” Granny interjected.

“I ain't so sure about that. I seen them on TV and they don't walk like monkeys.”

“You talk too much.” Granny said, as a way of ending the conversation.

We sat at the edge of the pond under a big cottonwood, the ground was moist and we would have wet muddy spots on the butts of our clothing when we went back. We tossed in our lines and I watched the bobbers intently.

“Indian kid up at Chilocco just got killed jumping in a pond like this.” Granny noted.

“How.”

“There's a nest of water moccasins. Kid dove right into the middle of them. Jumped right into a big ball of snakes. Came up and told the other kids to stay out and then died. Counted over eighty bites on him when they finally fished him out of that pond.”

“Well, I ain't swimming in this pond then.”

“You might have to”, my great grandmother teased, “What if your hook gets hung up on an old log? You gonna leave a perfectly good fishhook? No, you gonna have to wade in and get it.”

“I won't.”

The argument was resolved when my bobber ducked under water and I landed a big black cat. All in all, we caught four that afternoon. Enough for a great fried catfish and corn bread hush puppy dinner.

I slept that night in great grandpa's feather bed. It had ropes instead of springs supporting the mattress and you rolled to the middle and then sunk into a soft, warm and feathery quick sand. I felt that only my nose poked out.

In the morning, I volunteered to make coffee. This gave me a chance to work the pump in the middle of the kitchen, something that I loved to do. Granny had a sink, like everyone else, but it didn't have any taps on it. So if you wanted water, you had to work the pump. At first the handle was hard to push down, but it became progressively easier and easier until a gush of water came out the spout. I filled the bucket and then filled the coffee pot.

We had eggs, homemade bread and left over catfish for breakfast. You always ate a lot of eggs at granny's. She had lots of chickens which she regarded at pets. She seldom ate one, but she did collect the eggs. On the rare occasions when one was prepared for the table, usually special occasions when family would visit, she would let me catch the doomed bird.

The catching was done with a long, straightened out wire coat hanger with a crook bent into one end. A creation logically called a Chicken Catcher. You would sneak up behind the bird and grab it's leg with the crook in the coat hanger. The bird would squawk and flap, but would usually never back up and free itself. I would reel in the bird until granny could get it by both legs.

Granny would then sit on the back steps, put her foot on the birds head and, as the chicken issued a long mournful last squawk, pull the bird's head off. She would then let the headless bird run about the yard until it fell over. A sight I found bizarre but always enjoyed.

But there were just eggs today.

“Maybe we can take some to Old Bill”, I suggested.

“Nah”, granny replied, “Might turn him into a egg sucker. Then he'd always be hanging around stealing my eggs. Same reason the hound dogs don't get any.”

“We'll take him this”, granny continued, as she scooped a big pile of dog food out of the hound dogs big bag of feed and put it into a paper bag. She added some thick slices of bread, an apple and the one remaining catfish.

“This ought to do it”, she announced, and we left and headed for the big weeping willow.

The drooping foliage of the weeping willow formed a green room with the old stump somewhat in the middle. We sat the bag on the stump and then backed off against the foliage. We heard a snuffling sound and a man like creature walked upright through the foliage wall. More like he sort of limped rather than walked, he didn't seem to be doing too good. From head to toe he was covered with dark fur. Fur that was turning gray. He was about five feet tall and he really did have a face like a monkey. He took the bag and bolted down the bread while watching us.

He then wolfed the catfish so fast I feared he would choke on a bone. Following this, he ate the dog food from the bag like a kid eating popcorn at the picture show. He then dropped the bag on the ground, and holding the apple, shuffled out from under the weeping willow.

“I wanted you to see him girl, 'cause in the old days people might spend their whole life in the woods and never see one. So rare that it's said that if you ever did see one, you'd have good luck from then on out. And I wanted you to have that luck.”

“He the only one?” I asked.

“I think so. But you can't be sure. People stopped seeing them when I was younger than you, about the time the measles came through and killed so many of us. Figure the measles killed them too.”

“How did you meet him?”

“He was in the trash one night and ran off when I came out looking to see what the noise was. And I saw enough to know what he was. So I started leaving food on the stump, and it would get ate by something, and I figured that was him. Finally started approaching him and he let me.”

We walked back to the house in the growing heat of the day. The dew had dried from the long grass and the insects had started their summer song. We went cat fishing like we did almost every day. But this time we set our hooks on short lines, so they didn't reach the bottom of the pond, and tried to catch sun perch. We got enough for dinner.

Shortly thereafter, granny passed on and I never returned to the farm.

I high school I learned that my mother had a trove of old black and white photos from granny. Photos taken with her 120 mm camera with the over/under lens arrangement. An antique camera without a flash and where you looked into the top to arrange the picture. I poured through the photos looking for one of Old Bill. A creature that I now regarded as marvelous.

My heart gave a leap when I found a dark, dark photo which seemed to show the stump and the green room under the willow. Next to the stump was a man like figure, but closer examination showed this to be Mr. Bunt with a big grin on his face, holding his arms out in a silly pose. But behind him I saw a dark, furry arm holding a paper bag. But nothing that would prove the existence of the creature.

Reviews

[angel]

This was a great story; engaging, well written and with just a touch of humor.
I hope it's true. I also hope Old Bill left s couple kids behind.
My great grandma on my father's side was half Sioux. Her maiden name was Twinspirits.
She told me stories too, but none like that one.They were mostly about how different animals and birds got their names, stuff like that.
Nice to meet you, Miss F.

[Miss Fedelm]

It's all fiction, but thanks for the review. As I said above, I got the idea when someone said the bigfoot stories could be based on a group of snow monkeys that came over from Siberia with the Indians. And like the Indians, they died out when exposed to the European diseases.

[Lea Sheryn]

Interesting and imaginative. I like it!

[Miss Fedelm]

Thanks. It's always nice to get encouragement. When you write, you get so much rejection.

[Lea Sheryn]

You're welcome. I've only been here for a short time but so far it's been a good experience. This is the first time I've shared my writing in a public forum.

[barleygirl]

This is my favorite of any of your stories that I've read so far. This is a great story! Best story I've read all week. Your storytelling is top-notch, your imagination is off the charts, everything feels organic & realistic, even tho bordering on imaginary. Many of your details are similar to my own growing-up experiences & I felt the uninhibited joy of your narrator, to be living & then recalling this simple interesting life of adventure. The simplest details feel like an adventure, the way you tell stories (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Miss Fedelm]

Thank you and thanks for reading.

[Lyn Anderson]

What a great story. Needs a few tweaks to make either a longer compound sentence or a few complete sentences.

[Chris]

You told a good story - a couple of reading eye miscues like "agriculture to to Indian children", and an "I" - instead of in.

[Samuel Dickens]

This story is marvelous, and I read it with keen interest. Not that far from my north western Arkansas upbringing, a lot of it rang familiar. I also had a great grandma Woodall. (She and her family came to Arkansas from NC about 1855) As for dispatching chickens, my mother would pick them up by the head and swing them around in a circle, thus wringing their necks. The bit about old Bill is fascinating, and I really wonder what he was. A skunk ape perhaps, or some kind of hybrid? Those youthful experiences have certainly provided you with some amazing material for stories.

[Miss Fedelm]

The story is all fiction. I got the idea when someone said the bigfoot stories could have arisen from a few snow monkeys that came over from the Kamchatka Peninsula. They would have died out from disease along with the Indians.